


Rows of Potatoes

by MimiWritesHerFandoms



Series: The Boy from Brooklyn [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, insecure reader, plus sized reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-06-24 15:07:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15633171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MimiWritesHerFandoms/pseuds/MimiWritesHerFandoms
Summary: Steve visits while you’re in your backyard working on your garden.





	Rows of Potatoes

 

“Hello? Y/N, are you back here?” Steve’s raised voice floated through the air, coming from the gate in the side yard.

You pushed yourself to your feet, hurrying around the side of the house, brushing the dirt from your hands and legs. You took a second to glance down at yourself, cringing at the shorts you were wearing - not only were they worn and faded, with a few holes in some conspicuous spots, but they were, well, shorts. You’d never been comfortable wearing shorts, you felt like they showed off your thick thighs and unattractive legs. You only wore them when you were working outside and it was 24857474 degrees outside, like it was today.

You opened the gate from the inside and let Steve into your backyard. “What are you doing here?” you asked him as he leaned down to press a kiss to your cheek. “I thought you were in Europe?”

“We got back late last night and I wanted to see you.” He took your hand, squeezing your fingers. “Is that okay?” He sounded so sweet and earnest you couldn’t help but smile.

“Of course,” you laughed.

“What are you up to back here?” he asked, peering over your shoulder.

“I’m working on my garden,” you explained, leading Steve to the small garden you had tucked in the back corner of your yard.

“Garden?” Steve grinned. “I didn’t know you had a garden.”

“It’s not much, just some lettuce, carrots, tomatoes, potatoes, and a few herbs,” you said. “But I enjoy working on it, it’s relaxing.”

Steve knelt beside the square patch of earth, obviously appraising your work. “It looks great. What are you working on?”

“Pulling some weeds, planting a few more rows of potatoes,” you answered.

“Can I help?” Steve turned to look at you, his smile even wider, his blue eyes sparkling.

“If you’d like,” you laughed.

“I would,” he said. He rose to his feet and stripped off his button down shirt, leaving him in a plain white t-shirt and jeans. He tossed it on one of the patio chairs and grabbed the shovel.

You bit your lip, trying not to be obvious of your appraisal of his good looks and his muscle bound body. You dragged your eyes away and forced yourself to concentrate on something else, namely your garden. You showed Steve where the potatoes were going and where you’d started pulling weeds, then you excused yourself to go inside and get some lemonade.

While you were inside, you contemplated changing out of your shorts, but Steve had already seen you in them, so the damage was done. If you changed now, it would look like you were trying to hide your body. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror in the hallway - messy hair, no makeup, sweating, and you looked like crap. Great, that was a wonderful impression. You shook your head; too late to do anything now. So, you grabbed the pitcher of lemonade and two glasses and went back outside.

Steve had the shovel and was digging, his back muscles moving provocatively beneath his t-shirt, sweat pooling where the shirt met his jeans. He would grunt every time he stabbed the shovel into the dirt. It was times like these that you wondered how on earth you had ended up with someone like him.

“Lemonade,” you called. You set the pitcher and glasses on your small patio table, watching Steve as he tossed the shovel aside and strode across the yard to grab a glass. He swallowed it in several gulps, his head thrown back, his throat moving in ways that gave you all kinds of inappropriate ideas. You felt heat rush to your neck and cheeks and you prayed Steve wouldn’t notice, or at least think it was the summer sun beating down on you.

You took a sip of your own drink, then hurried across the yard, kneeling in the garden, and setting to work yanking out the few weeds that had sprouted during the week. 

Steve joined you, the shovel in his hand, digging several rows for the potatoes you wanted to plant. The two of you worked side by side, not talking, though the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was always like that with Steve; you didn’t need to talk or chatter incessantly when you were together.

When he was done, Steve dropped to his knees beside you and helped you to plant the seeds for the potatoes. Once the first row was planted, Steve hopped up and grabbed your green plastic water can, the one with daisies decorating the side, and poured water over the newly turned dirt. As he walked past you, he let some of the water dribble over the back of your neck. You squealed, jerking away from him with a loud gasp.

“Steve!” you laughed. “Knock it off!”

“Oops, sorry,” he chuckled. A couple more drops of water fell on your neck and ran down your back.

You scrambled to your feet, dancing away from Steve. You scooped up the hose, pointed it at him, and squeezed the handle. A spray of water shot out, hitting Steve right in the center of the chest. He yelped, jumping backwards, but not before you’d drenched his white t-shirt.

“Oh, that’s it,” Steve laughed, tossing the watering can aside and coming straight at you.

You screamed and tried to dart away, spraying the hose over your shoulder as you ran toward the house. But Steve was too quick, snagging your hand and spinning you around, the hose pointing straight in the air, drenching both of you.

The hose fell to the ground, the water cutting off, though not before both you and Steve were soaked. Steve’s hands were on your waist and he was pushing you backwards, until your back hit the porch railing.

You cringed, your hands coming up in an attempt to cover yourself; your t-shirt was clinging to you in the most unflattering way, tight on the rolls on your stomach, your “muffin top” as your mother called it, just another part of your body that you absolutely despised. It was clinging to you, emphasizing all of your flaws, most likely reminding Steve that you weren’t a perfect woman, like he deserved.

Steve leaned over and caught your lips in his, at first just a brush of his lips over yours, soft and gentle, but within seconds, the kiss was deepening, Steve’s hands roaming over your body, caressing you. He pressed his body against yours, his arms sliding around your back, holding you close.

You sighed, leaned into him, and tentatively wrapped your hands around his neck, your fingers slipping into his wet hair. His tongue danced along your lower lip, seeking entrance, which you willingly gave him, a low moan leaving you when his tongue brushed against yours.

A low growl came from the back of Steve’s throat, his arms closing around you, crushing you against his chest, the tips of his fingers biting into your flesh. The kiss had your heart racing and your body burning with need and it ended far too soon. When it was over, Steve didn’t release you, instead he held you close, his forehead resting against yours.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.

You shook your head and tried to pull away, the need to cover yourself, hide your body, your flaws, suddenly overwhelming you. You closed your eyes and tried to twist out of Steve’s grip but he wouldn’t let go of you.

“Steve, stop,” you whispered. “You don’t have to -”

He cut you off, his lips on yours, kissing you breathless. “Yes, I do,” he replied. “I will tell you how beautiful you are a hundred times a day, everyday, until you believe me.”

“Stop,” you breathed.

“Already said I wouldn’t,” he chuckled, the sound vibrating through you. He kissed you again. “So, stop arguing with me.” Another kiss, this one to the tip of your nose. “Now, let’s finish those rows of potatoes.”

“Okay,” you nodded, though you weren’t sure it you were agreeing to finish the gardening or to no longer argue with him. 

Steve released you, reluctantly. His cheeks were flushed, his chest heaving, and his blue eyes were dark with something indescribably sexy. He took your hand, a smile on his face, and pressed a kiss to your cheek. 

“Okay,” he chuckled. “Rows of potatoes, then.”

“Right,” you giggled. “Rows of potatoes.”

 


End file.
